


Beneath the Cracked Ice

by Virodeil



Category: Thor (2011), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst/Drama, Backstory, Broken Preconceptions, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Changing lives forever, Character Study, Confinement, Dark Past, Defying Expectation, Dehumanization, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family History, Family Issues, Family Reunions, Family Secrets, Flashbacks, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Inferiority Complex, Internalised Racism, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Magic, Mama laufey, Missions Gone Wrong, Other, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Power Play, Present Tense, Psychological Drama, Psychological Torture, Secrets, Stereotypes, Threats of Violence, Trouble In Paradise, Uncertain Fate, Unexpected Family Relations, Unreliable Narrator, Work In Progress, a lot of headcanons, character introspection, family baggage, inaccurate history, internalised sexism, large family, perceived character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:06:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Something goeswrongerwhen Thor confronts Laufey in Jötunheim. It leads to the discovery of many, many wrong things, as well as many, many right ones, not to mention all the added dirt and gold and those in between.





	1. Loki: Oddities

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another fossil that has been gathering dust in my drive. Written up to 2 1/2 chapters out of probable 7 at the time of publication. More diverse but as intense as _Winter's Treasures_ , for those who have read that other story; just intense in a different way. 'Good' read for those who would like to read all the sordid details of the generations prior to Thor and Loki, but sadly not for those who are searching for some cuddly scenes between Laufey and Loki. My chance to develop the sadly minor characters of the Warriors Three and Sif, as well as to show my tweaks of the names I found in the smatterings of Norse lore I found online, honestly. (My apologies, for those who might be offended by this.) And, last but not least, hope you'll like this story! It's been yet another labour of love, more than a year in making.  
> Rey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bolded dialogue is taken from the film script for _Thor_ on IMSDB, as well as the actual film, with some shuffling about and artistic license.

The moment the Bifrost deposits the small company of warriors and one semi-unwanted tagalong on the ice, Loki shivers.

 

 _Not_ because he cannot stand the cold, like how his companions are suffering, except for Thor.

 

No, he loves it, _too much_.

 

The landscape is dark and desolate as far as eyes can see, lit from above by three moons – one white-grey, the other white-brown, and the last coal-red – half obscured by hanging clouds. Jagged spires of ice and icy cliffs are intersperced with mounds of ice scree and rough snow, and slick patches of ice hide in quite inopportune places, ready to trip an unwary traveller into ravines or snowdrifts with questionable depths. A fierce wind blows almost nonstop across the empty wasteland, sometimes carrying with it bits of ice scree and a smattering of snowflakes.

 

But it feels _invigorating_ , instead of freezing: pretty cold but fresh with the brisk bite of impending snowfall, not dry and not wet but damp enough to hydrate thirsty skin that often chafes under Asgard’s relentless sunlight.

 

In fact, he wonders if the soles of his feet will like the wintry touch just as much, if he shucks off his boots and puts them on that patch of softer snow ahead….

 

He dares not speak about all of it, however. He has already been called all sorts of unsavoury names in Asgard, the gentlest of those being “weird,” “baffling” and “fickle.” He would rather avoid being mocked by his own supposed allies in enemy territory in an unsanctioned trip. The present situation is already dire enough, and leans more and more towards disastrous.

 

The ruins of a city loom on the darkened horizon. The ragged, jagged edges of toppled edifices, broken walls and jutting foundation pillars gleam just faintly under the subdued light of the three moons, and he cannot but wonder how they looked before the æsir came.

 

The dwellings of monsters….

 

He blinks, draws in a sharp breath, and goes to a standstill for a moment.

 

The environment has _changed_ , ever so slightly, on the thought of “monsters.” The icy plane has shifted into a vaguely ring-like formation, the natural roughness of the wasteland is now a mass of brittle breakages, and the void yawns here and there like it never did before, as if the company were tredding a fragile plateau swimming in the void rather than an actual planet – or even a magically maintained asteroid such as Asgard.

 

To say that it is disorienting would be a vast understatement.

 

To say that a frisson of fear is running up and down his spine would be far from the truth, as well – far _milder_.

 

He is dealing with a powerful, talented mage; or worse, a _group_ of powerful, talented mages. – But _how_? How can monsters master something as delicate as seiðr? How can they manage to conduct Workings without their greatest weapon? How can a race of giant brutes even _think_ of applying such a subtle deception as part of their defences?

 

Potant deception, at that. The distance to the ruined settlement is _not_ getting shorter, despite how long the small, miserable company he is part of has been picking its way stubbornly onwards, in-between the holes and cracks and other obstacles. Are they even heading in the right direction? Or is this a seiðr-born maze?

 

They are target boards for the jötnar, regardless.

 

Now, is it only his imagination, or are there indeed shadows flitting about on the edge of his vision? But if it is real, why has nobody else noticed it?

 

His breaths grow ragged. The damp chill of the air is no longer welcoming. Wistful imaginings of ice-bound experimentations fly cleanly out of his paranoia-hounded mind.

 

They are target boards for the jötnar, _and none of his companions realise it_.

 

In fact, Thor, up ahead, is saying jovially, “ **It feels good, doesn’t it? To be together again, adventuring on another world?** ” And that big oaf’s posse, they immediately complain about various things, _except_ for the dangers looming all round them.

 

So much for calling themselves “warriors of great renown.”

 

He dearly wants to bash their heads together, or at least transfer his vision to their eyes through seiðr, so that they may notice for themselves the trap they are walking so blithely into. But they will not appreciate the first option, however much they tolerate it from Thor, and, ironically, they will appreciate the latter even less, given the source and medium – a womanly, trickery-filled art from a wily argr.

 

Then, _at long last_ , the small, miserable company trudges amidst the first of the ruins, and the hidden jötnar spring the trap, almost visibly crowding them.

 

“ **Where are they?** ” Sif abruptly speaks, her voice tense as a taut bowstring.

 

` _All around us, so close by they can clobber us without stepping forward. It’s too late already to fret,_ ` he wants to say, but his mouth feels terribly dry, and his tongue is stuck to his palate. – This is _not_ what he invisioned when he thought of disrupting Thor’s coronation using the jötnar. He never wants his lout of a brother to die, not the said lout’s posse either, let alone himself, but the prospect is getting more and more than likely by each step they take.

 

After all, there is tense, shrewd hostility in the air, and it _doesn’t_ originate from the increasingly nervous æsir he is trailing after.

 

The foreign tension sharpens and hardens into icy outrage, quite unfortunately _for the æsir_ , when Thor scoffs in response, loud enough for _all_ to hear, “ **Hiding. As cowards always do.** ”

 

` _Oh, Thor. You **idiot**._`

 

It goes only downhill from there, _fast_.

 

“ **What is your business here, Asgardians?** ” one of their hostile escorts calls from up ahead, near one of the largest semi-intact edifices, clear across the large, pockmarked square. Given the deathly atmosphere and the rampant hostility between their realms, Loki is honestly surprised by the monster’s _politeness_.

 

The politeness that Thor _spits on_ , by hollering, “ **I speak only to your king, not to his foot soldiers.** ”

 

Their hostile escorts step menacingly out of the shadows, just so, with icy weapons drawn: towering, shaven-headed blue giants with glowing, glowering red eyes and craggy faces, naked but for the markings on their skin and the loincloth round their waist.

 

Those books in the library did not lie.

 

He wishes he were ensconced comfortably at his desk at home, however, when learning that, especially when one ice blade gets _too close_ to the top of his head.

 

` _Damn it. I don’t want to be skewered by a monster because of that lout!_ ` So, forsaking any thought of guarding the rear of the procession, which has long been a moot point already anyway, he quickens his steps and slips himself in-between the Warriors Three and Sif, to walk beside his brother – his still determined, still cocksure brother.

 

Only to stop short all too soon after, when yet another frost giant materialises beneath the cracked roof of the huge building up ahead, blending among the other frost giants and yet _not_. He resumes walking _only_ because of the force of the marching intruders and their jötnar escorts. But in his mind, he is still paces behind, freezing up and staring at _that particular monster_.

 

Not as tall and broad as many in the vicinity, yet not glaringly shorter either as to attract swift attention. Clad in finer loincloth: softer in hue and make, and looking a little more luxurious with the thin lines of what might be the chips of some gleaming stone decorating it. Wreathed in solemn authority and coiled might, startlingly _regal_ for the reputation of its kind.

 

But it is flanked by _several others_ cloaked in similarly visible air of power and leadership, and they are mostly _larger_ than that one is.

 

 _What_ , then, makes _that one_ different?

 

His nerves are jangling a merry cacophony inside of him when the company reaches the broken edifice, all too soon in his opinion. And there, under the eave of the building’s portico, _all too close_ to the six of them, sits the mystifying jötun in an armchair seemingly made of ice, still flanked by its – ` _Standing, quite probably ready for a fight._ ` – powerful retinue from all sides but the immediate front.

 

And it speaks, in a calm tone that nonetheless radiates menace in each deep, gravelly sound it makes, “ **You have come a long way to die, Asgardians.** ”

 

The proclamation frightens him, but not because of its content, which is just the blunt truth made even more blatant.

 

There is something _familiar_ in that alien voice; _bone-deep_ familiar, inexplicable to his conscious mind, to his rigid, rigorous reasoning. He has to employ _all_ of his courtly demeanour, _not_ to give out a shiver of unease or an air of perturbation.

 

Inwardly, still, it is another matter entirely.

 

What makes _Laufey_ – of _all_ the frost giants – familiar to _him_? Because this is almost undoubtably the King of the Jötnar itself, in the flesh, in its element, in its realm, surrounded by its numerous warriors and courtiers. Thor demanded to speak with the King, after all, however rude and bratty that oaf sounded, and Jötunheim would not dare to deny him, for fear of incurring Asgard’s wrath for the second time in slightly more than a thousand years.

 

Worse for his nerves, his oversensitive senses are beginning to pick up _something_ from the environment during the next few exchanges; something that is not the thickening hostility in the air, nor the wall of giant bodies all round him and his companions, and neither the weather that is turning wet and charged as if before a thunderstorm. The sensation develops slowly and almost unnoticeably, coating over the Asgardians like fine mist, but staying there stubbornly like snowflakes.

 

He has just realised that it is a scanning spell of some sort, when Laufey looks right at him on Thor’s demand to know how some frost giants managed to get into the weapons’ vault, gazing as if right into his soul with a pair of unnerving, monstrous red glowing eyes set beneath ridged brow.

 

He draws a deep breath surreptitiously. Seiðr rises up close to his skin, ready for use.

 

And still, his heart skips a beat when the jötun then proclaims, _whilst yet looking right into his eyes_ , “ **The House of Odin is full of traitors.** ” – ` _How did he know?! How did he know it was I? Impossible! He must be bluffing._ `

 

His mind is the next thing that gets stalled, when the monster parries Thor’s predictable outrage over the accusation with a snarled, “ **Your father is a murderer and a thief.** ”

 

Laufey says more things, things that seem to be geared towards inciting Thor’s easily stoked wrath, and Thor answers in his predictably explosive manner. But even as the situation escalates and Loki tries his best to contain it, two words continuously jam the thoughts of the younger Odinson: “murderer” and “thief.”

 

What would the King of Asgard, guardian of the Nine Realms, _steal_? Let alone from a barren land of brutish, uncivilised monsters?

 

Who would one _murder_ in a war? The rule of a battle itself, by its nature, is “kill or be killed,” and a war as great and devastating as the æsir-jötnar war a millennium ago would not be deserving of something as singular, as specific, as intentional as “murder.” A man can murder a rival or three; a man can even murder a group of innocents in their sanctuary; but whole troops of the enemy on a chaotic battlefield…?

 

And the sheer _emotion_ in those ridiculous accusations, however inscrutable it was….

 

He is going to ask his father when he is home once more and has mulled over this conundrum.

 

 _After_ he has born the brunt of the King’s ire, most likely. But he will not grouse overmuch against the punishment if only it means he has managed to bring himself and his oaf of a brother safely back home in the first place.

 

To that effect, once Laufey has unexpectedly – and rather civilly for the situation – allowed it, he quickly herds Thor back to where they have come from, with the Warriors Three and Sif acting as – a very, very flimsy – barrier round the two of them.

 

He _refuses_ to analyse how Laufey delivered the permission, to pick apart the emotions that so thickly layered the heavy words. He just _refuses_. He has no wish _whatsoever_ to sympathise with a monster, let alone the _king_ of those monsters.

 

But Thor drags his feet, almost visibly so, and–

 

“ **Run back home, little princess.** ”

 

–The oaf so eagerly retraces his steps _towards_ Laufey and its ilk, just so, raising his damn hammer high. And, in response, the scanning spell that has been coating the Asgardians flows into a containment Working, like water rushing down from a height into a more compact container through a smooth channel.

 

 _Unfortunately_ , however, Mjolnir is launched towards the loud-mouthed jötun standing to Laufey’s left _before_ the invisible restraints solidify, snapping into place, rooting the Asgardians _including Loki_ where they stand.

 

“ **Damn** ,” Loki curses under his breath, blood draining from his face, as he watches the damn hammer shoot towards the surprised – and maybe frightened? – jötun’s chest. ` _We’re dead._ `

 

And then, right before his eyes, another – far taller, far bigger – frost giant rushes forward, _and catches Mjolnir in its paws_ , just as, all round him, invisible currents of seiðr rush towards the executor of the unbelievable feat, as if air being sucked into a vacuum container.

 

As if _supporting_ the hammer-catcher in its no-doubt seiðr-aided effort.

 

Loki goggles. His mind blanks out for a moment. ` _Impossible!_ `

 

His mind has chosen a very, very bad time to take some respite, it turns out.

 

The thoroughly flabbergasted second prince of Asgard returns to reality by sheer force of will, but it has been too late.

 

He is already dangling _far_ above the icy, pockmarked, debris-strewn ground, caught by the back of his coat, at a level with his captor’s midriff, separated arm-spans away from his companions.

 

“A deed for a deed,” calls his captor, breaking the tense, freezing – _in both senses of the word_ – silence.

 

And the atmosphere turns _bloodthirsty_ , despite the fact that the frost giants are saying nothing overt – or at all, really.

 

Just grinning widely, showing rows of black, sharp teeth under glowing red eyes.

 

“Don’t you dare hurt my brother!” Thor squawks, so _audibly_ confused and angry and panicked, and Loki fights _not_ to groan aloud.

 

His captor laughs, predictably, sounding like so much gravel crunching together. “Your sibling, eh? Did you not just tell them to know their place? Maybe their place is dangling up here, paying for your wrongs?” it purrs. And, in a more literal demonstration of the threat, a nearby jötun makes a show of readying a humongous ice club.

 

` _Thor, you **fool**! You utter fool!_`

 

Loki begins to flail about, perhaps all too predictably. But he cannot just stay still when he is about to be bashed into pieces without the safety net of his – so recently and so cleverly bound – seiðr!

 

“ _Brother_!” Thor hollers, even more panicked now, and maybe also a smidge afraid, when all that the hapless younger ás can achieve is choking loudly on his own coat’s collar _and making more of the damn blue giant brutes let out more of that gravelly laugh_.

 

Lacking any other recourse to succour his soon-to-be-pulverised bones, he catches Laufey’s gaze and holds it fast. He stares deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, drinking in _something_ that he does not know but understands all too well, in a level that his mind, let alone his words, cannot – _will not_ – grasp. ` _If I am to die right now, let me die at home._ `

 

The ice club swishes towards him.

 

The previous currents of foreign seiðr, honed to a point, rushes towards him in kind, _into him_ , and latches into _something_ that he never knew has always been there – something not of himself, restricting, a cloudy barrier between him and the universe at large.

 

The ice club touches him.

 

He _screams_.

 

The barrier breaks.

 

Home rushes towards him, envelops him in flesh and scent and seiðr and soul, and brings him away.

 

He sinks into oblivion gratefully.

 

He is home.


	2. Thor: Shocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a loaded chapter, folks. (Seriously, _loaded_.) _All_ of the tags apply to this part of the story to a greater or smaller degree. Please make sure that you are in a safe headspace and environment before reading.
> 
> A note on reading method: If you would like to experience a fuller view on things and a unique way to experience the events as portrayed in the previous chapter, you could read both chapters side by side, paragraph per paragraph, until it is no longer relevant to continue thus, about half-way down this second chapter.
> 
> The third chapter will have to wait. It is still half-way finished; no different from when I firstly posted this story here. I might be employed soon and it would naturally cut down on the time to write, so the updating pace will be severely curtailed. The intensity of the topics will only get _worse_ in that chapter, too, so please think again or prepare yourself. This is not a happy or fluffy story.

Thor chose the perfect day for his coronation, which had been a century in waiting, starting from when Father had announced it to all of Asgard – and most likely the other realms, too.

 

The Victory Day, the day Asgard quelled Jötunheim’s greed so many centuries ago.

 

It was odd that Father did not agree to the date easily, unlike per usual when Thor was not being “out of the line” – according to the old king. But in the end the said old king agreed, however reluctantly, and that was that.

 

It was a perfect day, after all: the day Asgard showed its might to the unruly realm of ice monsters that had dared to harm Midgard, Asgard’s protectorate. Asgard lost much in that war, he has heard told, but Jötunheim had been subdued in the end. A hard-won victory makes it all the sweeter, does it not?

 

Well, it _should_ have been a perfect day for him, as well, if not for those damn frost giants breaking into the weapons’ vault!

 

He wants answers, and by the Norns he will have them. If those beasts want a second round of the war, he will give it to them gladly. What can they do, anyway, without the Casket of Ancient Winters – their greatest weapon?

 

 _However_ , his trip to Jötunheim has not born anything good so far. He and Loki are not affected by the chill of the dark, desolate land, but his friends are shivering hard and look distracted, a state that is very dangerous for warriors to suffer from in enemy territory. So he reminds them all to treat this quest as one of their adventures, in hope of lightening their spirits, even when Sif speaks out in concern just as they begin to traverse the ruins – maybe left from the war, maybe left from the beasts’ own rampages, he cannot care less about it.

 

His attention snaps back to his original purpose when one of the yet-unseen ice beasts calls out to him, _demanding_ to know his business.

 

Rude, quite rude; but what does one expect from a frost giant?

 

He must be firm with it, like his father did before him, all those centuries ago today, or it will never respect him and Asgard.

 

And then, he and his companions come upon Laufey; the king of the beasts, garbed only in a _loincloth_ , much like its brethren, with those glowing red eyes and that unnatural blue skin and those cruel markings those beasts carve upon the skin of their offspring.

 

The head beast is just as insolent and crude as he has always imagined it to be. Worse, it _dares_ to mock the House of Odin as being full of traitors, while staring right at _Loki_ , who has come up to take his rightful place at the future king’s side. – Loki is his little brother and a good prince and _not_ a traitor to Asgard, least of all to their father!

 

If the beast wants war, _he_ , Thor Odinson, the future king of Asgard and guardian of the Nine Realms, will give it one.

 

Loki is anxious; but then, this odd, exasperating brother of his is always anxious. Just a small, stern reminder hissed to the younger prince of Asgard is enough to quell the frightened nattering, though, as per usual. Thor is grateful for that; because, now that the situation is escalating, they cannot be seen bickering with each other. Loki will have to satisfy his fretting tendency at home, not _here_ , and not especially now.

 

Now, when Laufey oh so _graciously_ lets them go, as if it could ever afford _not_ to let them go back to Asgard! This beast is due some lesson.

 

But the fear in Loki’s eyes seems to have reached a fevered level…. Thor can never stand seeing his proud brother brought so low. ` _Damn you, Loki. Damn you, Laufey. Damn my soft-heartedness. Damn it all._ `

 

He turns his back on Laufey; very, very reluctantly, long-sufferingly ushered by his little brother.

 

Then one of Laufey’s guards dares to _mock_ him, call him a princess – an _argr_ , in other words. What an insult! – He shall teach it who the argr is, oh he shall!

 

Grinning ferociously, he turns right back and raises his beloved Mjolnir aloft.

 

` _Take it, monster!_ `

 

The warhammer flies.

 

…

 

 _But it never hits_.

 

Thor goggles.

 

A frost giant – the tallest of them all so far, if not the broadest – has just _caught Mjolnir in its filthy paws, **and keeps holding it**_ , as if it were an ordinary warhammer.

 

Worse, he cannot even raise a hand to call Mjolnir back to him, although he has put all his concentration into it. Trying to step forward to retrieve his beloved weapon manually does not work, either. ` _What have these beasts done to me, now?_ `

 

He regrets thinking about that even as the thought passess across the fore of his mind.

 

He has just noticed that Loki is no longer at his side.

 

Loki is _dangling from the filthy paw of yet another jötun like prey in the claws of a hawk_.

 

Father and Mother will kill him, if he gets their baby hurt. He will not forgive himself forever, either.

 

And then, the damn _beast_ keeping his brother hostage ever so flippantly calls for harm upon Loki for what Thor has nearly done to that insolent jötun earlier.

 

Terror surges into his mind and drowns him with an onslaught of emotions, all of them negative and all of them centred upon Loki’s safety. – ` _My fault my fault my fault my fault let me bear it not my brother let him go you damn beasts!!!_ ` – His throat works, but he can scarcely hear what he himself yells out.

 

Loki looks so small, so fragile compared to his muscly, monstrous captor; so frightened, hanging helplessly so far above the accursed soil of this accursed realm, _and the frost giants dare to **laugh** at his plight_.

 

Thor howls – in fury, in acute dread, in grief – when _yet another_ of the monsters, standing _too close_ to where the second Odinson is flailing high up in the air, raises up a humongous ice club that is twice bigger than Loki’s thin frame and as long as he is high, and prepares as if to hit him with it, while the others _laugh_.

 

Then the ice club _swings_ , just as a surge of _something_ rushes _towards_ where Loki is,

 

And Loki _screams_ – a blood-curdling, hair-raising, soul-piercing honest-to-the-Norns resounding _squeal_ that does not sound funny or childish or ergi at the slightest.

 

Thor screams with him.

 

The elder son of Odin barely notices that the jötnar – those vicious, vicious _beasts_ – are not laughing anymore, that Laufey is suddenly up from its crude ice throne and streaking _towards_ where that particular beast is still holding Loki’s body, that Thor himself is being shackled in seiðr and dragged away _somewhere_ through the same means.

 

But he notices, oh he _does_ , when Laufey dares to lay its paws on his little brother _and drapes Loki’s body over its shoulder like a game carcass_.

 

“UNHAND MY BROTHER, YOU _BEAST_!!!”

 

He struggles with all his might to break free, to return to where he stood a moment ago, an age ago, to retrieve the broken husk that used to contain his little brother, to go back home and receive any punishment that his father and his king will sentence him to, if only to return what remains of Odin’s favourite son to Odin himself.

 

And yet, despite his considerable might, Thor, the eldest – and now _only_ – son of Odin, _cannot even twitch a finger_. The cocoon of seiðr trapping him inside feels like a thin, tingly, malleable membrane at first, but it does not give even half a nail’s breadth when he tries to push against it.

 

If only Loki were here….

 

But Loki is _dead_ , killed by Thor’s hubris in so ignominious a manner, while the culprit himself is still damnably _alive_.

 

The berserker fury and grief die down a little when seiðr – it _must be_ seiðr – muffles his senses, including the notion of his general location.

 

The fury – but not the grief, just not yet, or maybe never – is entirely doused when, with a cold feeling in his marrow that has nothing to do with the frozen environment of this accursed realm, he realises that he has _not_ heard any peep or movement from his friends and companions for quite a while already, even before… _that thing_ with Loki.

 

` _I have gotten everyone killed,_ ` is the first thing that comes to his mind, followed closely by, ` _To think that Father nearly crowned me king._ `

 

And then he realises: ` _I am the last. What do these beasts spare me for?_ ` His father will certainly _not_ spare his life once news of Loki’s death is known, even if the jötnar use him as a bargaining chip and return him home, and even though he is the Crown Prince of Asgard.

 

The second Odinson may not be in favour with many of the warriors and courtiers, but Loki is certainly beloved to Odin and Frigga with that mischievous charm and quiet competence of his, and to many of the peasants as well given his generocity despite his flightiness.

 

Loki is certainly beloved to Thor Odinson, too, _and Loki is dead_.

 

` _How loving you are, you “mighty oaf,” that you caused the one you love so much to die._ `

 

Not even Loki’s most favourite epithet for him works to lift his maudlin heart; not even a little. How much Thor would sacrifice now, to hear that annoying nickname spewed once more from the mouth of his aggrevating, aggrevated little brother….

 

The muffling cocoon is lifted up, and the thoroughly defeated Asgardian falls sprawling on the smooth ice in the shock and disorientation that the suddenly returning senses create in their wake. Presently, he finds himself in a cubical barely tall enough for him and just wide enough to take two paces to any direction. He whirls round as soon as he gets his bearing, but the sudden movement only earns him an undignified sprawl on the floor _again_ , and also the sight of a clear, glimmering barrier snapping close across the only opening to this tiny, icy closet.

 

 _With nobody in sight_.

 

Where are the guards? Where are the prison wardens? Would the jötnar – those _beasts_ – not use this chance to jeer at him – to beat him, even? Who – or _what_ – brought him here, then? How could he demand to go home if there is nobody to aim the demand at?

 

Or, maybe, they – those _cowards_ – are just out of sight and standing still, waiting for his reaction?

 

No, he is not going to give them the satisfaction of witnessing him breaking apart at the seams.

 

He seats himself cross-legged on the farthest corner of his cell, which is really not much and clearly designed to drive its occupant mad with claustrophobia, and closes his eyes.

 

It is time to be subtler in his modus operandi. – There is no Loki to bail him out of trouble, now, as little as his pride would like to acknowledge such a contribution in most times _before this_. He must save himself using the power that he usually harnesses only when he is wielding mjolnir.

 

The power he often teased Loki about, when his little brother was wielding it and even some time afterwards.

 

Now, in Loki’s memory, he is going to use it.

 

He takes a deep breath of the stale, chilly air all round him, draws his awareness mostly inward, and begins to try to pool his metaphysical strength together.

 

 _Try_ being the operative word.

 

He quickly loses his sense of time, as he is lost in his own mind, attempting – and _always_ attempting – to draw on his seiðr. It is always sliding away from him, as though he were trying to squeeze a wet bar of soap that was too big for his hand.

 

The more frustrated he is, the more slippery the grasp becomes. And the farther he is from his goal, the more furious he becomes – with himself, with the current situation, with the sequence of wretched events that has led him to this place and this point in time, even with _loki_ for leaving him here alone….

 

Thor Odinson, at long last, erupts from his fruitless meditation with a roar of impotent rage.

 

Impotent, because not even a sliver of ice has been chipped away from his _cage_ in consequence, unlike in the previous instances of his loss of control, which would cost him the utter destruction of a room _in the least_.

 

He tries to uncoil himself, then, to batter down the walls through physical might. But even a tiny movement already sends his muscles and joints afire.

 

And from the other side of the energy barrier, a rumbling chuckle can be heard.

 

His head snaps up. His neck muscles protest loudly at the sharp, sudden movement, but he cannot care less about it. Shame of his loss of control being witnessed mingles with outrage of being mocked and insulted so; and, as in other times before, the mixture culminates in more fuel for his wrath.

 

“You _DARE_ mock a son of Odin?!!!”

 

The blue-skinned brute seated on a large fur cushion on the other side of the barrier lets out a deep belly laugh to that.

 

“Greetings, child of frigga,” it drawls, clearly highly amused and not in the least threatened. On Thor’s look, it continues drolly, “Nice to hear where your priorities lie.”

 

Thor growls and lunges towards the energy barrier that separates him from the insolent jötun, ignoring the pain that burns his every muscle on the sharp, sudden major movement of his long-asleep muscles. A mere glancing contact with the barrier already suffices to scorch his skin, however, so he is forced to subside – _for the time being_.

 

The reoccurrence of the frost giant’s belly laugh tests that decision immediately.

 

“I am yet to see Voðen and Frigga in you, child. Much of Bor, however,” the beast remarks blithely before Thor can do or say anything else. “But then, I suppose, with such a face, I should have known beforehand.”

 

“You have no right to besmirch my grandfather’s name,” Thor snarls.

 

“Oh really?” the jötun challenges, with a smirk colouring its rumbling voice, accompanied by a smidge of bitterness that perks thor’s figurative ears up. He cannot act on that weakness, though, for the frost giant then continues in a voice devoid of any inflection, any emotion, or even any of the faint warmth which is now apparent by its absence.

 

“I have no right, do I. – The child of the person whose spouse was taken away and raped repeatedly by that thing. The womb-sibling of the youth who died attempting to shield children from its onslaughts. The kin-sibling of other youths murdered senselessly in the war it helped to instigate. The citizen of the realm it invaded and destroyed with little to no reason. The kin of the pregnant person whose womb was struck hard by the mace wielded by its right-hand beast. – Yes, I have no right. That is, if the names Bestla, Vili, Vé and Loki mean nothing to you, among others that it harmed.”

 

Thor’s mouth opens, but his throat clicks shut instead. ` _Those names…. **That** name…._` – Bestla is… was… his father’s mother, rarely talked about but oft thought about, judging from how many keepsakes and sketches of hers he spied in his father’s private rooms each time he visited the latter in his childhood. Vili and Vé were his father’s elder brothers, twins, who died during the war with Jötunheim, following their warrior mother. And _Loki_ …. – No, no, he is _not_ going to think about that other name in that chilling litany; it must have been meant as a distraction; but _Loki_ ….

 

It is one insult too far.

 

“Do not _EVER_ say my brother’s name, you _BEAST_!”

 

The frost giant does not let out yet another laugh. But now Thor finds out that its venomously amused drawl burns him all the fiercer.

 

“ _Brother_? Ah, I see. How _loving_ you are of your kin, then, that you let the person fall into enemy’s hands without any thought spared for them prior to the mention of their name. Then again, who would actually be your enemy here, if you were not so blinkered by all the propaganda your nurses told you? Or did _Voðen_ teach you all… _these_?”

 

Thor splutters in his utter indignance and confusion. – How could this _beast_ ever draw such conclusion about him and his intentions? What does it mean by him not knowing who his enemies are? Who is even _Voðen_? And, if the name indeed refers to _his father_ , how could _the King of Asgard_ have anything to do with any positive view on _Jötunheim_?

 

Apparently he has forgotten – _yet again_ – to guard his expression, for that beast seated _so close_ across from him continues its drawled monologue with: “You began with demanding respect for _yourself_. You sought to break free, not to demand answers to the questions that you _should have_ asked. You continued with other topics, but _never_ any about your immediate kin or companions. – Do you even know that, if you categorise me as a beast, it means that you are one yourself? Bestla’s blood runs in Voðen, and in turn it runs in you. Frigga herself is not pure vanir, and it would have been apparent if only her father had not locked the form of her mother and their children irrevocably.”

 

Thor’s heart pounds against his ribcage, in his head, in his ears, in his throat, in his clenched fists; and yet, the noise is not enough to block out the monster’s words, which poisonously slither into his mind and shrivel his insides.

 

“Do you even know that the person whom you call your ‘brother’ is actually your _cousin_? Not one belonging to your acknowledged family line, according to our customs, but still _not_ your brother. In fact, the one you call Loki is actually true first cousins with Voðen, since their mothers are womb-siblings.”

 

“You _LIE_!”

 

The beast _snorts_ to that. “Any other form of accusation, please. I have long been bored by that one.”

 

Thor opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, but nothing intelligible comes out amidst his spluttering. His face reddens, and reddens even further when the deep belly laugh sounds again from across the force-field.

 

But all the excess warmth – _all warmth_ , even – leaves his face as, while all-too-gracefully rising up from the cushion, the frost giant drawls out, “Delightful as it has been to ‘converse’ with you, I have duties to finish. I might see you again should the Monarch remember you amidst doting on their long-lost child, if only to recover your remains, _Cousin_.”


	3. Volstagg: Mysteries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: dehumanisation and depersonalisation, internalised sexism and racism, confusions abound, implied torture
> 
> Author’s note: I am not familiar with the _Thor_ comics, in which Volstagg originated, so my advanced apologies for any inaccuracies, and my sincere hope for some enlightenment about it. Sometimes, just researching online isn’t enough…. But still, I hope you’ll enjoy this!

Volstagg has always prided himself on being a good, loyal citizen of Asgard first and foremost, then a good warrior, then a good husband and father after he married his beloved Gudrun, then a good, loyal companion to Thor – the Heir Apparent to the throne of Asgard – since the latter has been but a little boy.

 

He was a boy himself, though not so little anymore, when King Bor – the then Prince Odin’s father – went to war with Jötunheim, after the beastly frost giants had kidnapped Queen Bestla and caged her in Midgard, following their invasion there. If he had been five centuries older, he would have gone with the King’s warriors to save or avenge Queen Bestla. But as it happened, he staid home and only received stories about how the poor woman, whom he remembered as being black-haired, blue-eyed, tall, rather androgynous, silent, stoic, and rarely present beside King Bor, had perished in the hands of the huge, blue-skinned, red-eyed, monstrous brutes that were the jötnar before her rescuers could reach her; and also about how the Asgardians themselves had nearly perished in avenging her, saved only by the might of the remaining members of the Royal Family that led them.

 

Those recountings were what made him determined to become a royal guard upon his age of majority, hoping that no more of the Royal Family would get kidnapped and perish on his watch, and he suspects it was what made the now King Odin trust him to guard Thor, before he was ever regarded as the little prince’s companion. Keeping Thor safe during the Crown Prince’s adventures, then, has always been a privelege for him.

 

Going to Jötunheim, to seek recompense for the frost giants’ act of insolence in ruining Thor’s coronation ceremony, is just one of those adventures, if far chillier than the others in more ways than one. Volstagg was actually leery of inciting the huge monsters’ brutality without the backing of King Odin and Asgard’s army, and yet Thor was persistent to go, so he must do his duty to keep the Crown Prince safe in such a hostile environment. Not to mention, as in many of their adventures, Thor dragged Loki along, and Sif was determined to tag along as well, and so the task of guarding _two_ heirs to the Asgardian throne _plus_ one woman – if quite a courageous and rather sword-savvy one – fell on him and his two warrior compatriots by default.

 

Really, really _not_ an easy task, that, as Thor has always been hot-blooded like his grandfather, and Loki has always been delicate and… womanly, and Sif has always been all too headstrong and opinionated.

 

Still, the loyal guard and companion to the princes had _never_ thought it would end this way. – The band of warriors he and the two princes are counted amongst has always managed to get out of adventures and go home safely, if sometimes not so unscathed. Likewise, Thor has always been jovial to his companions and confrontational to their enemies, Sif has always backed Thor up like a good woman and citizen of Asgard ought to, and Loki has always been like a cold fish to the face in every gathering and sneaky in his dealings. But the similarities end there this time.

 

For one, their band of warriors, who went to Jötunheim as one and confronted Laufey’s court likewise, has been scattered so sneakily by the frost giants, and there is no indication whether any of the members are _still_ alive.

 

Volstagg himself – _for the time being_ – is alive. He would not be able to fret, otherwise. He just does not know _until when_ this reality will persist. He was overcome by a sudden and heavy sleepiness when Loki was captured by one of the largest frost giants in Laufey’s court of raggedy, barbaric creatures, before he could even hope to mount a rescue, and then he woke up in another place entirely.

 

A prison cell, to be exact, as some of his adventures with the princes and his fellow warriors have sometimes led them to. It is not a stale, dirty one, as in the case of those other cells, but it is _tiny_ , not to mention freezing. The ceiling is bearly high enough for his height; the area bearly fits his voluminous gurth; and _all_ of the solid sides – including the ceiling and floor – are made up of ice: smoothed into a mirror-like surface, bitingly cold to the touch, and emanating _even more chill_ into the air that he has no choice but to breathe and exist in.

 

A startlingly rather apt torture for one such as he, who cannot abide tiny, cold places, especially after all those stories about the kidnapping-happy, violence-happy jötnar he heard in his childhood, whether tall tales or true recountings. He cannot abide silence and lack of company, either, given his own personality apart from those tales, and his jailers apparently did not miss those points for his captivity, _too_. The latter is only made worse by the fact that he knew _very well_ that Loki has been captured. Was Thor next to be captured, after Volstagg himself had so embarrassingly lost consciousness? Are both princes still alive? Has he, Volstagg, failed his duty and desire to keep the Royal Family safe?

 

The next thing that hits him after all those, oddly enough for his penchant of excessive appetite, is hunger.

 

Apparently, there are yet worse things than being hungry, according to his mind and body and soul. Sif and Fandral will not be able to tease him about him being hungry all the time, now.

 

If they are still alive, that is. He has not heard anything from or about them for however long it has been. He has not even seen _anybody_ , not even his jötnar jailers. His wastes simply vanish from the floor, and a conjured glass of icy water appears at random moments, each lasting only a few moments if not quickly grasped and partaken of.

 

Truly, the lack of any kind of company from any kind of creature while being confined in such a small cage is the most torturous of all, especially when tagged along with the lack of knowledge about his companions lives and whereabouts. It is more torturous than even the constant, gnawing, twisting, burning hunger, and slowly but surely drives him mad.

 

Mad enough to try to break free, in fact, paying no heed to the burns that now decorate his hands, from vainly trying to punch a hole on the semi-transparent force-field that is the door to his prison cell.

 

And then, all of a sudden, just as he is recuperating his energy before he tries to batter down the shield again, the force-field is simply… _gone_.

 

Volstagg son of Orvald stumbles blindly out of his tiny cage, following his desperate instinct to get free – _free free free free_. He does not know where he is going. He partly does not care where the endless-looking ice corridor leads. All that he focuses on is that he is _free_.

 

But still, the longer he hobbles and trips along the corridor, the more aware he is that he seems to have been led in an endless circle like a drunken fool.

 

His body and mind have gone weak from lack of sustenance and stimulus, and the lack of familiarity with everything here is very, very disorienting, and both help damage his sense of bearing and direction; but still, this particular sense is _not_ quite dead yet.

 

The realisation that he has been _toyed_ with, like a little rodent by an unseen but present bird of prey, sickens and shames and angers him in equal measure.

 

“Cowards,” he breathes. He wishes it were a venomous snarl. He wishes any of the jötnar were there to receive their due. But he cannot even let out proper words anymore from his throat after so long forced into silence.

 

He cannot stand upright anymore, at that, regardless of how much he wills his body otherwise. he goes into a stumbling stop and falls sprawling on the mercilessly icy floor in no time at all, and he fancies hearing some distant laughter from deep voices as he tries to scramble back up _and fails_.

 

He wishes Thor were there to find a physical solution out of this mess. He wishes Loki were there to find a seiðr-based companion to that solution, to break open this maze. But as it is, he only has his pathetic self, not even his other companions, and he must fall on his own wit and strengths in order to save himself before thinking about anybody else, even _the princes_.

 

So, lacking the muscle strength to get up on his feet, he walks on his knees. And then, when his knees are no longer enough, he scrambles on all-fours. – There is no longer any thought of dignity, of honour, of courage, of cunningness or of bravery.

 

There is even no Volstagg son of Orvald, or a _he_ , after an uncountable while. There is only _self_ and _move_ and _on_ and _away_.

 

A moment or an age has passed, it seems, when the environment turns a little warmer, a little brighter, a little more earthy. It draws attention, and the self tiredly perks up.

 

Familiar.

 

Safe?

 

It continues on its way, until, for once in however long it has been, it bumps into an obstacle.

 

A vertical one.

 

Supporting a surface.

 

From which semi-alien but pleasant smells are wafting.

 

The self perks up even more, and now it lets out a sound from deep in its long unused… throat?

 

The smells have something to do with throat, too, and with… mouth? Stomach?

 

A wholely unplanned sound – as much as the self can _plan_ by now – escapes the… stomach? And subsequently introduces – _re_ introduces? – a little bit of emotion to… him?

 

A soft clack of earthenware on stone sounds before him, then, and he – _he_ has a _name_! – knows it for certain.

 

It is _familiar_.

 

The smell coming out of the earthenware, too, is familiar.

 

Come to think of it again, the _look_ of the… plate? Is also recognisable.

 

Savoury… water? No. Broth? Stew? Gravy?… in a… plate? No, bowl?

 

He dips a shaky… hand? Into the puddle of liquid, then brings the coated appendage just as tremblingly up to his face.

 

He accidentally smears the substance on many parts of his face, but manages to get a look and a lick at it all the same.

 

Warm. Clear. Runny. – Broth? Newly cooked? Simple?

 

His lips, newly tasting the heavenly liquid, move a little, tilting up on the edges.

 

There is so much still in the bowl.

 

Not managing to lift the bowl up, he falls into it instead, right on the stone floor, lapping at the broth greedily, disregarding the mess he is making on himself and the surrounding bit of floor.

 

His stomach protests on the new thing suddenly filling it, but readily sucks it all in anyhow.

 

And then, his _re_ emerging sense of higher self takes up a similar protest: There is a… surface – a _table_ – is it not? – nearby, so why does he not use it?

 

With an almighty effort of will, he stops drinking the heavenly broth and looks up, blinking as he becomes aware of the difference in lighting and ambience. He is in a… room? With a sturdy wooden table nearby, and… and… and….

 

And _there is – **has been** – somebody nearby_, it seems, half hidden behind the table.

 

The fire in his breast that has been doused now reignites, and it becomes so easy to let go of the bowl of broth. Straightening up still takes much effort, unfortunately, and he must yet suffer the indignity of balancing on his knees at the stranger’s feet; unable to rise up to his feet, let alone challenging the perpetrator of this demeaning treatment to a duel of honour.

 

It is not to say that he cannot defend his honour _verbally_ , all the same, especially since his throat has been lubricated with the broth, however backhanded the blessing has turned out to be.

 

“Who … you?”

 

But for a long, long, long time, there is no reply whatsoever from the stranger, nor any reaction. The world is entirely silent save for his own heavy breathing and ploddingly thumping heart, as if it were also waiting for his insolent host’s response to his admitedly pathetic demand.

 

He swallows, once, twice, thrice, then does his best to rise up to his feet, using the table to lever himself up, abandoning the bowl of broth with no second thought.

 

“Who…,” he begins again, wheezing, once he has managed to stand, leaning heavily against the table with weak, shaking legs, almost bent double on it. But the rest of his recycled demand dies before it can come out, as his sight finally shakes off its vertigo-induced blurriness and recognises… ` _That face!_ `

 

“Queen … Bestla?” ` _But Queen Bestla is **dead**! And Queen Bestla had blue eyes, didn’t she? Not green?_`

 

And, “No,” finally comes a short, flat, tightly controlled answer, delivered in an androgynous voice that is nonetheless similar to the Queen – the Mother Queen, the dead one, the one lost and gone in Midgard or probably here, the one the self – no, no, no, no, _Volstagg_ – wished to avenge, that long time ago.

 

He frowns, or he thinks he does, with how numb his face has become in addition to other parts of his body save for his oft-used hands. “Who…?” he asks again – no, no, not a demand now, to be safe; who knows who this person is, and if they are related to the Queen….

 

If they are related to the Queen…! – Have they been caged here as well? _All this time_? Did King Bor pursue the jötnar here, after defeating them in Midgard, so that he could rescue this relative of his queen?

 

Has the task, then, after so long and sadly just by accident, fallen onto him – _Volstagg son of Orvald_ – to finish?

 

Well, then, if that is so….

 

He straightens up further, doing the best that he can to give a good impression to this maybe-not-quite-a-stranger, however belatedly.

 

But then the said stranger – _so similar looking to Queen Bestla!_ – also rises to… her?… feet, and… well, he has forgotten how tall Queen Bestla was! He has to _look up_ , unlike when he is addressing other women, even his tall and beautiful Gudrun, and this adds to the daunting effect of trying to address a probable long-lost relative of the royal family, and….

 

“Tell me, Asgardian, _truthfully_ , without anything spared or hidden, about how you _yourself_ have been treating my child thus far. Speak the truth and the whole of it, and I might spare your life… or make your death a clean one, at least.”

 

…

 

` _Child? Who? But doesn’t she look much like…?_ `

 

“Loki? Prince Loki? Where…?”

 

“ _That_ whom you called ‘Loki’ is _my child_ , Loptr. _How_ did they end up in _your_ company and abused so?”

 

` ** _Abused_** _?!?_ ` “Wha … – _No_! I mean, I mean, no, Ma’am. He… he… he… not… I mean… not….”

 

“Not abused? How would you explain a person being drafted into military since _toddlerhood_ , then? Or _a child_ being tasked to be responsible for an entire fiefdom? Or a child being _afraid_ of positive tactile interaction with adults that clearly do not mean them harm?”

 

“ _No_! I mean, what? I mean, I mean, Prince Loki is an… he’s an… an… an _adult_!”

 

“I know for a fact that one thousand and three hundred years is _not_ yet the age of adulthood, even in your barbaric _settlement_. And Loptr is _not_ even at that age yet, nor an ás. – I do not want your meaningless terms. I do not want your excuses. Give me _the truth_ of their life, and you might be spared from any… _unpleasantness_.”

 

“What… what about… my friends? And the… prince… the princes? Where… they? What….”

 

“An… _admirable_ sentiment. But unless you would be willing to gain nothing but pain at the end, you had better start giving me what I have requested, now.”

 

“ _No_. What about… what about….”

 

A sharp gesture cuts off Volstagg’s effort to know the most important thing in this situation, and his captor does not waste more time trying to pursue that ridiculous demand.

 

Instead, she beckons in a few people, a little taller and much burlier than she is, and they cart him away.

 

It is the last time Volstagg son of Orvald feels relative peace for what seems like eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments? Complaints? Suggestions? Feel free to fill in the comment box or reach me through my e-mail address in my profile page. :) - Rey


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